


Smoke on the Water, Fire in the Sky

by strangeh (Elfgrandfather)



Series: Putin/Medvedev Archaeological Dig (Old Fics) [2]
Category: Political RPF - Russian 21st c.
Genre: Belligerent Sexual Tension, Frottage, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-07
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 10:25:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18737164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elfgrandfather/pseuds/strangeh
Summary: An encounter on a rainy evening.





	Smoke on the Water, Fire in the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> This was The First Fic I wrote for this pairing! Who knows when this dates from, like 2008? The story was translated into Russian at some point, so it may still be floating around the Russosphere... see you, space cowboy...
> 
> It's kind of funny re-reading it. I think Putin gets less weird and aggro the more I write him, so here he's at peak Bitch. I edited it a bit because some of it was honestly incomprehensible.
> 
> The title is a reference to the Deep Purple song because Medvedev is a Brit Rock nerd and they're his favourite band.

The sound of rain against the window was lulling me to sleep, interfering with my writing.

Russia isn't always cold. Sometimes it gets so warm that children and the elderly die of heatstroke, drop dead in the middle of family reunions or holidays at the dacha. Of course, in the unheated houses of distant Siberian villages, land forgotten even by God, many succumb to the frost. I know all about those trifling matters. It's my job.  
  
I was examining figures of our perpetually spiralling population while Pink Floyd’s Division Bell played on the computer's speakers, loudly, louder than was allowed.

Perhaps I did this intentionally. To attract his attention.  
  
Whether I meant to or not, I succeeded. As the first notes of Poles Apart began to play, my office door edged open. Slowly and deliberately. Everything he did was deliberate, never just for show.  
  
‘Dmitry,’ he said, his usual impassive expression firmly in place, ‘if you’d be so kind as to turn off that noise. You're not in your car.’  
  
‘Of course, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to disturb you.’  
  
I was acting foolishly. After all, wasn’t this what I wanted?  
  
‘I was trying to concentrate, and you had to distract me. This isn’t even music, just filth.’  
  
His tone told me this wasn't rhetorical. But what could I say? ‘Forgive my interfering with you work, please allow me to expiate my fault through any means necessary?’ I didn’t know what he wanted to hear. We stared at each other as the minutes floated by, him keeping his hand on the doorknob, ready to go at any moment but held back by some invisible force. Waiting for a reaction. I sat at my desk in my comfortable leather armchair, the monitor’s light flickering, absurdly hoping he wouldn’t hear my thudding heart. Vladimir Vladimirovich quit working for the secret services long ago, but being in the KGB is like riding a bike. Intimidating people and suppressing their will is automatic.  
  
‘It’s not filth,’ I finally answered. ‘I brought this music along because I thought you might enjoy it.’  
  
Surprise flashed across his face, but his expression smoothed over in half a second. It was still a rare manifestation of emotion, which in itself was unique. And valuable – to me.  
  
‘How can you assume such things? Since when do you know what I “might enjoy”?’  
  
I shrugged.  
  
‘Well, I don’t know. Everyone likes it. Everyone I know’  
  
‘And here I thought I was unique,’ Putin smiled, but his icy grey eyes remained cold.  
  
Uniqueness goes hand in hand with solitude. It was obvious that something was irritating him, and I hoped with all my might that neither I nor my music had caused this reaction.  
  
‘I heard you ordered your subordinates to deny the rumours again.’

‘Yeah. I need to retain some, ah, illusion of power, don't I? The avoid whispers about our _close connection_. About the fact that I’m your puppet.’  
  
This made him smile, as I knew it would.  
  
‘I wonder if the speculations,’ he started, finally going away from the door and heading towards the window. I followed his movement with my eyes. The rain still flowed outside, ‘are rooted in my physical talents and your exploits in yoga. People might be scared I’m wearing you out. Puppets have limits too, you know.’  
  
The ambiguous joke made me redden and hide behind the computer screen. Four months of abstinence had put their strain on me – the onset of menopause meant Svetlana wouldn't let me anywhere near her. She'd complain endlessly, usually while she ran herself a bath, and in moments like that, accompanied by the sound of flowing water that was omnipresent on this rainy day, his features would appear behind my eyelids; a mocking gaze, a flipped nose, wide arms, strong hands… I had to restrain myself from moaning there and then from the rushed excitement, vicious, shameful, so sharp and alive and impossibly forbidden.

The imagination sketched unmentionable pictures as I stole glances at him, and as time went by, they pushed the limit of decency further, again and again, until I couldn’t look at him without being reminded of even the smallest details of my fantasies, from intermittent panting and trembling to the feeling of being engulfed in convulsing ecstasy, every shred of energy torn from me.  
  
And now, imprisoned in my office with him, I wondered how much of the queer way I acted he could interpret, and the question tormented me – could he understand just how much I desired him?

I jumped when he coughed lightly.  
  
‘By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask, how are you taking to your new way of life?’  
  
I looked up from my webcam, set up to film my video blog, and gave an imperceptible shrug. Well, imperceptible to most.  
  
‘It’s alright,’ I answered, trying to sound unaffected. The prescribed diet hadn’t been easy. It was hard to forget the sleepless hungry nights and the scathing words of foreign political correspondents. But the meals, sports and cosmetic procedures brought about due results. ‘I’m much more relaxed now. Swimming helps. Splashing around every evening makes me feel like a kid.’  
  
‘I’m considering taking it up too,’ he stated, moving away from the window and towards me, ‘Judo, wrestling – they’re not the ways to keep me in shape. Age, as you know, no longer permits it. But swimming – that’s another matter. It’s suited for all, young and old.’  
  
I strongly doubted that his complaints about age were based on truth. I saw those photographs with the prince of Monaco. A picture of his form, half-naked, suddenly flared into my mind, and I was unable to make it disappear in time. His smooth, bronzed body, hard muscles, the bulge in his trousers… I felt myself trembling, my face a deep shade of red.  
  
‘Are you feeling alright?’ he asked, more our of politeness than our of any real concern for my well-being.

‘I’m fine. Just fine.’  
  
All I wanted then was for him to leave, immediately. My trousers felt tight.  
  
‘Could I take a look at this?’ he quickly walked over to me, studying the documents on the screen. I breathed in the smell of his cologne, the edge of his jacket scratching my cheek. ‘Do you need any help?’

‘Leave,’ I mentally begged. Insteadn I flatly said, ‘No, thank you. I’m just studying statistics here… about Siberia, just routine checks. I was thinking of bringing them up in the video blog.’

‘Ah, to call attention to our farther regions? Good idea.’  
  
He came closer, inadmissibly close. My heart was nearly beating out of my chest. I closed my eyes.  
  
‘You should mention the Siberian health resorts. Westerners think it’s just an eternal stretch of frozen ground, that…’  
  
I was no longer listening. His proximity, his voice, his smell intoxicated me. He had only to glance down to see the effect his presence had.  
  
He bent nearer to the screen in order to read the small type without glasses, and in order to hold his equilibrium, he leaned on my elbow. 

‘God, what torture!’ I sobbed, no longer able to keep control.

Several seconds passed, seemingly becoming an eternity, and I hoped he hadn’t heard. I tried to tell myself a miracle could have occurred. After all, I hadn’t been very loud. Maybe he’d interpret it as a sigh or a cough.  
  
I understood how stupidly I was acting when he suddenly jerked my chair toward him.  
  
Have you ever had a moment in your life where you felt completely alone and defenceless? Forgetting your lines onstage. Or making a joke, only to have no one laugh. I was in that same situation, except a hundred times worse.  
  
I tried to rise from the chair in order to leave, to run away from his questioning stare, the stare that made me feel like a butterfly, pierced by a pin. He was looking at my lap, focusing on one spot very obviously under a significant amount of stress, further fuelled by the shame and excitement of his glare.

But he wouldn’t allow me to escape.

He stretched out his hand, and I thought he would strike me, my body positioning itself to receive the blow, but he only pushed me back down, and then… he stroked the back of my head. His hand was affectionate and warm, but I felt myself shaking, sweating. He caressed me again. I don’t know what reaction he was waiting for, but what came was a moan.  
  
He shifted my position, and placed his other hand on the bulge between my legs. I instinctively embraced him, my head burying into his breast. His skilful fingers moved quickly, sweetly. I didn’t last long – when he applied some pressure, I almost died. From within his throat, I heard a corresponding groan of inexpressible pleasure.  
  
I don't know how much time we spent against each other, or when he slowly removed his hands from me, but I was awoken from my lethargic state when he spoke.

‘The rain seems to have stopped.’  
  
I opened my eyes.

‘I'll go back to my office,’ he was already near the door, reaching to the knob, ‘I’ll let you carry on.’

When he turned away, shutting the door and leaving me alone with the aftermath of the best orgasm I had ever experienced and the most stunned feeling in the world, I couldn’t help but think I saw a smirk on his face.


End file.
